The Supermarket Cashier Who Discovered Why the Old Man Bought Only One Egg a Day — and the Reason That Made Her Cry

The grocery store opened at seven a.m., but by six-thirty, Emily was already there—navy apron on, ponytail tight, eyes still half-asleep. She had been working there for three years. It wasn’t her dream job, but she’d learned to enjoy the small things: the smell of fresh bread, the rushed greetings of regulars, the small talk about the weather or football games.
Every day, almost at the same time, an old man would walk in through the automatic doors. He moved slowly, with a slight limp, and always wore the same brown jacket, frayed at the elbows. He never carried a basket or cart. He’d go straight to the eggs, open a carton carefully, and take only one. Then he’d walk up to Emily’s register, smile softly, and pay the exact amount—just a few cents.
“Good morning, Mr. Thompson,” she’d greet.
“Good morning, young lady,” he’d reply, his voice shaky but cheerful.
And so it went, every day. Just one egg.
At first, Emily thought it was just another quirk of the neighborhood customers. Some counted every penny, some argued over coupons, some wanted to sample the grapes before buying them. But the image of the old man stayed in her mind like a question without an answer.
“Why only one egg?”
One rainy morning in November, with umbrellas dripping at the store entrance, Emily couldn’t hold back her curiosity. She waited until he paid and gently asked,
“Wouldn’t you like to buy more eggs? They’d last you all week.”
The old man looked at her for a moment, his expression somewhere between gentle and wistful.
“One’s enough, dear. One a day… that’s all I need.”
Emily smiled, but the answer lingered. In the following days, she found herself watching him more closely. Sometimes, she’d see him walking down the street with the egg in a small paper bag, holding it so delicately it was as if he carried something precious.
Weeks passed. December came—with lights, carols, families shopping in a rush. But Mr. Thompson remained the same: walking in slowly, buying just one egg.
One Saturday, as Emily finished her shift, she spotted him sitting on a bench outside the church. She hesitated, then approached.
“Mind if I sit?”
“Not at all,” he said with a kind gesture.
They talked about simple things—the cold, prices, how the days felt shorter. Emily finally asked,
“Do you live alone?”
“For a few years now, yes. I used to live with my wife, but…” he sighed softly, “she left before her time.”
Silence filled the air.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said.
“Thank you. But you see, I still go to the store every day. It helps me keep my routine… and my memories.”
That phrase—“keep my memories”—stuck in her heart.
A few days later, moved by tenderness and curiosity, Emily decided to follow him after work. He walked slowly through the quiet streets until he reached an old red-brick apartment building. He climbed to the third floor and went inside. Emily waited a moment, then nervously knocked.
He opened the door, surprised but not upset.
“Are you alright, Mr. Thompson?”
“Yes, dear… would you like to come in?”
The apartment was simple but tidy. On the kitchen table sat a framed photo of a smiling woman with silver hair and bright eyes. In front of it, a small ceramic plate held a single boiled egg.
Emily froze.
“It was her favorite breakfast,” he said, noticing her gaze. “Since she passed, I cook one every day. I don’t eat it. I just… leave it there for her.”
Silence filled the room like a sigh. Tears welled up in Emily’s eyes.
“You must’ve loved her very much.”
“I still do,” he said. “And as long as I bring her an egg every day, it feels like she’s still here—waiting for me to have breakfast together.”
That night, Emily couldn’t sleep. She thought about love, loneliness, and how the smallest gestures can carry the deepest stories.
The next morning, she brought a small basket of hand-painted eggs to the store. Each one had a different design—flowers, hearts, cheerful words.
When Mr. Thompson arrived, she handed him the basket.
“For you.”
He looked surprised, emotional.
“Thank you, dear… but I only need one.”
“Then take one,” she smiled, “and share the rest with others. Maybe memories can spread a little that way.”
He chuckled softly. It was the first time Emily saw him truly smile.
A month later, the old man stopped coming. Emily waited, worried, for several days. Finally, she went to his building. The door was slightly open. Inside, silence. On the table, next to his wife’s photo, sat a blue heart-painted egg… and a note:
“Thank you for reminding me that love doesn’t end—it just changes shape.”
Emily cried. But this time, not out of sadness—out of gratitude. Because she had learned that even something as simple as buying one egg can hold the most powerful story of love and memory.